


The Flaw in Clear Water

by neverminetohold



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Abuse of Authority, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Bathing/Washing, Blood Magic, Childhood Sexual Abuse, Derogatory Language, Dragon Age Kink Meme, Electroejaculation, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Evil!Halward, Feeding, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Gen, Homophobia, Hurt/Comfort, Inappropriate Erections, M/M, Magical Bond, Major Character Injury, Medical Procedures, Mind Manipulation, Mind Rape, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Non-Sexual Slavery, Nursing, Poisoning, Pre-Canon, Prompt Fill, Racist Language, Rape/Non-con Elements, Romance, Semen Collection, Sexual Slavery, Slash, Slow Build, Stream of Consciousness, Suicidal Thoughts, Told in Snapshots, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-29
Updated: 2015-06-19
Packaged: 2018-03-20 05:48:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 28
Words: 17,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3639060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neverminetohold/pseuds/neverminetohold
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Halward Pavus did not merely try to change his wayward son through the use of blood magic - he succeeded...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Aggregio Pavalli

The wine should have tipped him off, really.  
  
Not in years had a visit from him merited the opening of a bottle, far less an Aggregio Pavalli, a red known in Tevinter for being outrageously expensive and hard to come by even for magisters, with a full body and sweet bouquet.  
  
It had been served in the upper-level drawing room, balcony doors open wide to allow an unimpeded view of the lavish garden below, where every hedge and flower was arranged and pruned to lifeless perfection.  
  
Dorian had made polite conversation with his mother, sentimentality and the knowledge that he might never see her again keeping his sharp tongue and witty repartee in check. Everything he would need in Orlais and Ferelden, to investigate the Venatori and help Felix, was stored not far from the grand mansion, ready to be picked up right after he left.  
  
The wine was perfect, the flute cool against his fingertips as Dorian lifted it to his lips for another, carefully measured sip.  
  
"Will Father make an appearance too or does he prefer to hide in his laboratory?"  
  
His mother smiled sweetly, gracefully ignoring how the glass rattled on the table as Dorian set it down between plates of cheese and honeyed dates. He frowned at his hand, tried to make a fist but failed. The tremor spread towards his wrist, a peculiar feeling of numbness following in its wake.  
  
"Why, Dorian, I think he might surprise you."  
  
"Mother--!"  
  
The world tilted as he tried to get up. His chair hit the ground only seconds before Dorian found himself prone as well, with his cheek pressed into the hand-woven carpet. His shock and panic, utter disbelief and feeling of betrayal, all were swallowed by darkness.  
  
He had never stood a chance of tasting the poison that now rendered him helpless.


	2. What He Knows

Minrathous was supposed to be a beautiful city, sprawling along the seven gently rolling hills at the pulsing heart of Tevinter. Its history rich and ancient, evident in every building, garden, and fortification. Pride of its people, that walked the streets with their heads held high.  
  
Lycas had never been free to idly wander about. He had been to the slave market twice, a babe in the arms of his mother then, a beaten dog now. But he knew the uneven cobblestones, thirty steps, from the stage to the waiting coach of his new owner.  
  
He knew the darkness inside, the tiny window high above that cut the sky apart with iron bars, the straining of horses as the whip cracked, the burning stripes on his own back, the chafing of shackles, the stench of fear from those sitting beside him, the nausea in the pit of his stomach.  
  
He knew what it meant, to be ushered straight into the dank cells below a rich magister's mansion, to be separated from the others. They would haunt him, the young girl's moist eyes, so round and green. Wrested away as she tried to cling to his fraying sleeve.  
  
Before long, the crying stopped, one voice after the other falling silent. Until only the dripping of blood remained, sloshing gently in the ceremonial bowls placed to catch it.  
  
Huddled in a corner, Lycas awaited his turn.


	3. What Matters

Halward watched as the slaves arranged Dorian's naked body on the altar. The lines of his face were slack in enforced slumber, except for a slight frown. Such an unimportant detail, but it reminded him of the tiny babe that he had held in his arms, now almost thirty years ago. Wrinkled and squalling, it had been a source of endless pride.  
  
His son, his heir, his legacy.  
  
Dorian had proven his worth many times. His intelligence was above average, his magical talent outstanding. He had been so eager to please, for praise, and willing to work hard for it.  
  
When had that changed?  
  
The day Dorian had left for the Circle in Vyrantium, young mind open to the influence of others? During his first summer back home, when Halward had found him in bed with his so-called 'schoolmate'? Or perhaps at that one party, where Dorian had dared to openly criticize what he called 'the delusion of Tevinter supremacy'?  
  
He had offered his son a bright future - as the next Head of the prestigious House Pavus, Magister of the Great Senate, and Lord of Asariel. All he had asked in return was for Dorian to preserve the family line, to marry the Lady Livia Herathinos.  
  
Instead, he had flaunted his unnatural inclinations for all to see and continued with his inflammatory speeches to the point where the repute of House Pavus was in danger of being marred.  
  
For the benefit of their family, such egotism could not be tolerated. And if the only viable solution lay in the practice of blood magic, then so be it. All a man could ever hope for was preserving his name, the only thing of value with the potential to outlast the ages.  
  
Halward nodded and Marcus ushered the other slaves outside. It was intricate work, to apply the runes and symbols along the meridian lines of Dorian's body. The blood seemed even darker on his tanned skin, toned muscles quivering in time with the curls and slopes of each brushstroke.  
  
Halward took special care with the elaborate signs that worked as foci, placed first on Dorian's brow and heart, then his genitals. He felt somewhat embarrassed despite himself when the latter reacted to the stimuli.  
  
"Really, Father? I may be an invert, as you are so fond of calling me, but incest? Even my depraved mind shies away from _that_."  
  
Having measured out the dose himself to leave no room for errors, he did only pause for a moment, but not flinch, when Dorian suddenly spoke, managing to form words despite a drug heavy tongue.  
  
"Be silent."  
  
"Oh, please excuse me! Is my being awake an inconvenient hitch in your mad scheme? Blood magic, the last resort of weak men. Do you remember those words? They are yours, in case you forgot."  
  
Halward ignored Dorian's ranting, voice husky but tone biting, focused on his task but also keenly aware, and pleased, how his son tried to reach beyond the Veil to gather his magic and free himself - and failed.  
  
"This joke goes a little too far!"  
  
One more symbol, brush slightly off track with the rising of goosebumps. The skin reacted, but Dorian remained still, forced to immobility. A quick look out of scientific interest revealed how unnerving an experience this must be.  
  
"What do you even hope to accomplish?! You can't just _change_ me!"  
  
True fear began to tinge his son's voice, but Halward returned to averting his eyes and steeled his heart. After the ritual was done Dorian would remember nothing of what had transpired here. Still, the sheen of sweat made things unnecessarily difficult.  
  
"Sleep," he commanded.  
  
Dorian's defenses were already weakened, his mind open to suggestion. As such, the words being given weight by magic was enough to subdue him.  
  
All preparations finished, Halward set brush and bowl aside, and wiped his hands clean with a handkerchief. He had not taken two steps when his boot connected with a body, limp and discolored.  
  
Lips thinned to sneering lines, he called for Marcus. "Dispose of them."  
  
"As you command, dominus."


	4. Abomination

The flames cast twisting shadows over the high arcs and walls of the ancient vault, covered in faded murals and dark stains that had seeped into the stone. The air was cold enough to burn, tasting of the ocean and despair.  
  
"One day, you would thank me for this, Dorian," a man clad in a mage's robe spoke. His hands were glowing faintly, mana gathered to be given shape; dangerous. "If only you could remember."  
  
Silence answered him, for the one he had spoken to lay unconscious in the middle of the room, covered in nothing but rust-colored runes. The family resemblance between them was striking, enough so to be recognized: father and son.  
  
White lines of chalk, framed by symbols and scripture, ran around the length of the altar to form a circle within a five-pointed star. With a beckoning gesture steaming blood rose from ceremonial bowls, rivulets, flowing, filling them.  
  
The lives of others sacrificed, in exchange for power.  
  
The atmosphere grew heavy with the weight of the mage's will, brought to bear on his spell and the Veil. He reached beyond the physical, to invade not only the home of the Firstborn, but also the sanctity of a human mind.  
  
By his demand, the magic circle was soon awash in vermilion and dancing sparks of green, each brimming with the whispering voices of friends. Warning, inviting.  
  
Terror, building in waves, mounting, crashing and breaking on the shore that was iron-clad resolve. This was done out of love, not selfish desire, for you, not me, so tainted with lies. And there it was laid bare, this tangle of strings, binding ties, connection with others, a knot of self, the threads all there: fears, hopes, memories, dreams.  
  
The man touched his son's temples, just barely, with his fingertips.  
  
The hidden watcher, a curious wisp, drawn by the tears of a dead elven child, fled back into the Fade. It was long gone when the screaming started, and grateful for it.


	5. Patient Observations

(Private Notes of Medicus Camio, the Younger)  
  
Day One  
  
Pale and clammy. Mild bruising and abrasions; (defensive wounds). Shallow breathing. Pulse too fast. Eyes open, blinking, but non-responsive to outside stimuli of any kind; used needle to prick skin.  
  
Also a magical void, no traceable amounts of inherent mana, no harmony, no resonance, no natural accumulation of ambient magic. - Connection to the Fade accidentally severed?  
  
Tranquility is an option I need to consider. A magically induced vegetative state without hope of recovery another. How to break the news to Halward and Lydia?  
  
  
  
Day Two  
  
Pale and clammy. Shallow breathing. Pulse too fast. Non-responsive. Minor injuries healing.  
  
No change in a magic-related sense. However, I noticed that the patient does not seem to dream during his average nine hours of sleep. Verifies my theory of tranquility?  
  
Drop-fed one of my special extracts, will not sustain him long, however.  
  
The patient is unable to chew but will swallow liquids when fed. As long as they are honey thick there is not much risk of choking. Incontinent (fecal and urinary), not due to any discernible medical condition. A good sign, all things considered - at least the ingestion and digestion functions normally.  
  
Halward is running around with some impressive scratches all over his face. Heard Lydia rant and scream.  
  
  
  
Day Three  
  
Pale and clammy. Shallow breathing. Pulse too fast. Non-responsive.  
  
No change in a magic-related sense.  
  
Drop-fed thrice.  
  
Dorian is Halward's only heir, adoption not feasible in his position. Perhaps he will consider what options remain for his son to sire a child?  
  
Should have brought more wine as a condolence gift for Lydia. Starting to trip over all the empty bottles.  
  
  
  
Day Four  
  
Pale. Normal body temperature. Normal breathing. Pulse steady. Patient continues to be non-responsive.  
  
Otherwise no change. A shame to see such a magical talent so utterly destroyed. - Suggested ritual denied. Suddenly, the use of blood magic is unthinkable. Typical Halward. Oh well.  
  
Hope?  
  
  
  
Day Five  
  
Pale. Normal body temperature. Normal breathing. Pulse steady. Patient continues to be non-responsive.  
  
No.  
  
  
  
Day Six  
  
Pale. Normal body temperature. Normal breathing. Pulse steady. Patient continues to be non-responsive.  
  
No one but me at his bedside. Dorian is still such a lovely sight. Always treated me with underhanded condescension and disgust, even though I'm an old family friend. Tempting.  
  
  
  
Day Seven  
  
Pale. Normal body temperature. Normal breathing. Pulse steady. Reproductive organs functioning. Minor injuries healed. No fresh ones, made sure of that. Patient continues to be non-responsive.  
  
In danger of developing bed sores. Muscle tone will soon start to diminish. Pity. I so enjoyed stimulating him yesterday.  
  
Will recommend to have a slave stay with Dorian at all times, for constant observation and nursing.  
  
I need to order the slaves to start packing. Nothing more in my power to do. But what a delicious piece of gossip this whole affair is!  
  
...not that I can do anything with it. Or would want to. Crossing a man like Halward Pavus is far from beneficial for ones continued well-being. Poor little Dorian should have known that.  
  
Halward promised to royally reward me in exchange for my silence. Wonder what kind of story he will have prepared for when people start to notice Dorian's absence from society. Also, the semen extraction is not yet off the table. Neither is euthanasia.  
  
...I need to burn these.


	6. Undaunted

Lycas sat on the soiled straw, counting the passing of days by the meager meals brought to him - a cup of water, a slice of cheese, a crust of bread.  
  
The cell was dank and dark, the air cold with a salty tang that must be unique to a seaside city like Qarinus. It came blowing in through a vent, secured with an iron grate. Mice rustled in the opposite corner, their squeaking almost soothing.  
  
Or at the very least far better than that shrieking and screaming and howling, like a slave flayed alive, that had echoed along the corridor almost a week ago. - Or the silence after, followed by an explosion of frantic activity.  
  
There was nothing to be done but sit and sleep, walk five paces from one wall to the other, eat and relieve himself in the provided bucket. To think. His back was healing, itching.  
  
Lycas caught himself dreaming of the banquets his former master had held, how he had sat at his feet on a soft pillow, fed morsels from Magister Vorenus' own golden plate. He woke shivering, with an upset stomach, and angry with his past self.  
  
He had been a stupid child then, had forgotten that he was only a slave, the hard work, how his mother had cried when they carried him away. He had enjoyed being spoiled rotten, believed any lie.  
  
But he had learned.  
  
He remembered being ten years old, his fingers braced against the cool surface of a mirror, being forced to watch as his master pounded into his ass until he feared pain and death no longer.  
  
"You are far too pretty to scrub the floors," Vorenus had said, opium breath hot in his ear.  
  
In Tevinter, being born elvhen meant one of two things: a life in servitude, only seen when needed or as a sex slave, a favor to be passed around and put on display as a symbol of status - or one kept hidden instead, for more private or depraved pleasures.  
  
Lycas shook himself. The darkness and solitude, they were starting to affect him. He began to pace more often, ill at ease with this new habit of his, to drift and dream even when his eyes were wide open. That way lay too much pain, perhaps madness.  
  
He had not survived this long to give up now. He had been sold and bought instead of killed, and whatever blood ritual had cost the others their lives, he was still here.  
  
One day, he would see the plains and forests his mother had told him about, the cities, the ruins in the Dales, meet her clan, even though they would most likely not welcome him, bare-faced and town-bred as he was.  
  
One day, he would escape. One day, another opportunity would present itself and carry him farther than closing gates and the blank steel of shouting guards.  
  
That hoped for day might even come sooner than expected: light footsteps stopped in front of his cell. A key scraped in the lock and then a man stood on the threshold. Framed by torchlight, he was reduced to a rough silhouette.  
  
Lycas scrambled to kneel and bent, brow touching the dirty floor. "Dominus."  
  
"The Master has a task for you. Come."


	7. In Vino Veritas

"And Camio had nothing more to say?" Lydia demanded to know. "No more treatments to recommend? Nothing?"  
  
She held out her empty flute and it was filled, but the near scarlet liquid tasted like colored water, and affected her just as much. Her eyes burned. Lydia had developed a deep hatred for her own reflection in the mirror. It showed her deep wrinkles, more gray in her curls, and skin too pasty for even the best makeup to cover.

She blinked and Halward blurred in her narrow line of sight. His lips were moving, but the sleeve of her gown had become fascinating to her, stained with wine and gleaming golden in the light cast by the fireplace. She was always so cold these days.  
  
Dorian, her perfect baby boy. Reduced to a husk, a cripple, doomed to fade away. Camio might have been a fat and greedy bastard with no lineage and name to speak of, but he was a great medicus, the best. If he had given up hope...  
  
"Lydia? Did you hear me?"  
  
"No." Lydia looked up and found Halward frowning down at her, where she lay draped on the gilded chaise lounge. Her long nails had left impressive marks on his cheeks, a sight that warmed her heart. "When ever did I listen to you?"  
  
"Not once since you married me, I dare say," Halward answered, but the words lacked their usual bite and acid. He too was pale and drawn. "You know how I hate to repeat myself."  
  
"Then don't. You would only bore me."  
  
Lydia took another sip, but suddenly, the taste had become rotten. Dorian had met her eyes for a moment, lying there on the floor, the Aggregio Pavalli a spreading puddle close to his hand. It had reached for her, nearly touched her.  
  
No wonder she was forced to rely on powders to find sleep at night.  
  
"What do you know of that elf?"  
  
Halward's left eyebrow rose. "He is a slave. One blood sacrifice more than needed and thus still alive. According to the papers, his name is Lycas. What else is there to know?"  
  
Lydia snorted as unladylike as she could manage just to see him flinch, and gestured to have her glass refilled once more. "Your short memory never stops to astound me. Think of magister Vorenus and his grand festival."  
  
Of course, that only earned her a blank expression. Vorenus had been influential once upon a time, but greater players of the game had risen to take his place, and her dear husband was inclined to dismiss anyone below his standing. As he well should. Still, while he was occupied with his magical studies, his duties and politics, she herself was a great connoisseur of whispers, and had thus procured many invitations that turned out to be beneficial for his plans.  
  
Lydia sighed. "Lycas was his favorite pet for many years. Quite the sweet little thing, for a rabbit. We were even introduced once, in a manner of speaking, but you politely declined his services."  
  
Halward turned away, towards a small side table, to pick up his own glass and avoid her eyes. Another small tactic in the battle stratagem of their miserable marriage. "And Dorian?"  
  
"Might have gladly fucked him, for all I know," Lydia answered, feeling vicious satisfaction to see her husband's knuckles turn white even as her own stomach roiled at the very thought of her son lying together with other men. Or worse, one of those animals. "Alas, he was studying under Alexius then."  
  
"And what of it?"  
  
"He tried to escape. Vorenus died not a month ago, his heart finally giving out on him, and that ungrateful wretch tried to run."  
  
"I'm aware."  
  
"You are?"  
  
Halward smiled, thin-lipped and cold, and saluted her with his liquor, as if amused by her lack of business sense. "The very reason I got him so cheap."  
  
"And you want to leave our son in the care of this vile creature?"  
  
"Only until a heir is secured. And Marcus will keep a close eye on him." Halward set his glass aside and moved to leave, probably thinking that he had wasted enough time with her. "Besides, if that Lycas is in possession of any intellect at all he will be grateful to be given another chance to serve."  
  
She could see it then, that to him, Dorian had already been given to the flames, had ceased to exist. Lydia pondered that for a moment, and felt in her heart that it might well be true. Yes, she may have failed with Dorian, was barren herself, but a grandchild? That would make her happy, feel alive again, it must. Surely.  
  
Surely...  
  
"My husband."  
  
That stopped him short, those rare words that she had to use sparingly. Once, young and foolish, he had loved her, a fact she well knew and wielded like a weapon, in times of great need.  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"I agree. To everything. Do as you think is best. Just - just give it a month. Four weeks is all I ask." Lydia forced herself to smile, felt it waver on her glossy red lips. "One hears stories so often, of people recovering from magic gone wrong, and against all odds. Even Camio said so."  
  
She feared he might draw this out, to make her beg, but he only nodded. "Very well."  
  
The slaves closed the door behind him with a soft click. They, at least, were well-trained and obedient. Useful for more than warming the beds of their betters. Lydia frowned at the thought and drained her flute, to try and get rid of the sour taste the conversation had left in her mouth.  
  
"Bring another bottle."  
  
"Yes, domina."


	8. Now

The corner room on the first floor was sparsely furnished. A bed and the small cot placed at its end dominated one half, a copper bathtub with lion's paw feet the other. Even with the wooden shutters open, curtains billowing in the mild ocean breeze, half of it was shaded and thus pleasantly cool.  
  
The adjacent dressing room had been emptied of mirrors and garments, and filled with stacks of bed linen, gowns as the infirm wore, man-sized cloth diapers, buckets and other utensils used for cleaning.  
  
Inside it smelled not of sickness, as Lycas had expected. There was a sour note in the air, of sweat and unwashed skin, but it was almost drowned out by the biting tang of vinegar and lemons.  
  
The man who was supposed to be both his master and charge had not reacted as Marcus had explained his duties to Lycas, nor did he now, as his new body slave stared openly down at him.  
  
Lycas found that oddly reassuring, to say nothing of unnerving. Still, he made use of this unsupervised moment, to study the Altus mage, this Dorian Pavus.  
  
His face was the perfect medium of angular and smooth lines to be called handsome, with a straight nose and plump lips that Lycas could easily imagine tilted in a cold sneer or charming smile. As was in fashion, he wore his dark hair partly undercut around the ears and overall short, and a mustache. His skin was tanned, and as he was surely no older than thirty, there were few lines yet around his green eyes.  
  
They were disconcerting to watch, those eyes. Blank and unseeing, they stared at the ceiling, or rather, somewhere beyond.  
  
Lycas had to suppress a shudder. Usually, an empty expression was a statement in and of itself, one meant to hide emotions, obscure true intentions.  
  
Here, he was confronted with a mask, and nothing underneath.


	9. Then

The world had shrunken to a pinprick of faltering light, surrounded by darkness, like a tunnel, and at its end hovered the face of his father.  
  
It took Dorian a moment to understand that the command to sleep had been eroded by the forces gathering in the vault, with him as a focal point, no less, allowing him to open his eyes, if only a little.  
  
He would have applauded his own stubbornness, but he could not move another inch, nor speak or call upon his magic, to try and stop this madness. He was helpless to do anything at all but lie there and take it.  
  
Morbid curiosity made itself known. He had felt the symbols being drawn, of course, but that had not been enough to identify them. So, which method had Halward chosen to use? There were three dozen Dorian could have named off the top of his head, without ever having made a detailed study of blood magic. - And not one seemed likely to _not_ reduce him to a drooling vegetable, far less turn him into any version of 'Dorian' he would not hate with a passion.  
  
The copper stench of warm blood rose into the air, crawled into his lungs, and Dorian was not self-centered enough to not regret that slaves had been bought and killed, just because a rich, spoiled magister son had refused to marry the prized brood mare his parents had selected for him.  
  
Green sparks, like motes of dust, began to fill his narrow vision. Fingertips grazed his temples, his father's dark eyes impossibly close, and then the thin veneer of Dorian's composure crumbled.  
  
He was --  
  
 _mana fed into the runes, the circle ablaze, sinking below his skin, eating deeper like acid, straight into the marrow of his bones and_  
  
 _searing his mind_  
  
 _open to suggestion, without defenses, layers peeled away, like a fruit, the pages of a book, the ink of words can be scraped away with a knife_  
  
 _it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it_  
  
 _fingers of another mind, shapeless, sifting through, carving a new path, find the shells, hidden, within the fine sand, of memories of_  
  
 _dreams, hopes, love, emotions_  
  
 _he is smiling, Father, so proud, I did well, I am all that he wanted, but_  
  
 _No!_  
  
 _deeper, pulling, shifting, moving, rearranging_  
  
 _the smell of parchment and beeswax and leather, the delight to study, Felix sneaking in, sweets and cakes on a silver platter_  
  
 _the curve of his lips, the taste of him, older, so brilliant, worldly, experienced, are you playing hard to get, what, did you think this was about more than sex?_  
  
 _right to the core of_  
  
 _she is beautiful and perfect and full of spite, how she hates him but smiles, how could he call her wife, live with her, false like_  
  
 _plucking at the pieces, weeds, ripped out, gnawing like a hungry rat_  
  
 _NO!_  
  
 _discarded_  
  
 _it gives, it tears, it shatters, it is me, it is I_  
  
 _I am_  
  
 _(Please. Anyone. Make it stop! Make it –)_  
  
\-- screaming.  
  
And then, Dorian Pavus, was no more.


	10. Early Duties

Lycas rose from his cot at dawn, after a night spent tossing and turning, the thin blanket rough on his skin. Dorian's too even breathing had kept him awake, followed him into his dreams of endless, waving green.  
  
"Good morning, Master Pavus," he dutifully greeted him, with a deep bow, but by now he knew better than to expect any kind of reaction. "Let me make you more comfortable."  
  
Lycas proceeded to change his master's diapers and clean him. The padded fabric was heavy and soaked through, warm and moist to the touch, but this time the bed linen had not been soiled. The stench was biting, but he had smelled worse, and soon it was replaced by the scent of soap.  
  
As he had been shown yesterday, he disposed of the bundle in a basket on the way to the kitchen. It stood hidden in a corner, below the servant's staircase. Doing the laundry was not part of his duties, but he had seen the other slaves in passing, their hands angry red and swollen.  
  
"A good morning to you."  
  
The old cook returned his greeting with a sharp nod that made her gray curls bounce, but the five young girls under her command ignored him. Or at least, they pretended to, while they kneaded and rolled out the dough for today’s bread and pastries.  
  
A fine dust of flour hung in the air and streaked their cheeks, and Lycas could feel their eyes on him as he gathered what ingredients he would need for a simple breakfast. They avoided him, had either been instructed to or feared him by association. - Blood magic left a taint all its own.  
  
Of course, there was also the simple fact that even among slaves, no two of them were equal. It was important to learn quickly who was in favor and had fallen out of, who held sway over the Master and who only played the part, who shared ties of family, friendship or rivalry, and so on and so forth.  
  
Lycas had tried to escape, to run away from his former master. His cropped ear was a warning, for all other slaves to see. No matter their honest thoughts and feelings, shunning him was an easy way to prove their own loyalty.  
  
And matters in a household only got more complicated with the added presence of paid servants. Three of them Lycas had seen, answering only to the domina, evident in the masks they wore. And then there was Marcus, with his silky voice and leer, who seemed loyal only to Master Halward and wore the bracelet of a freedman...  
  
He should not dwell on such things, seek to take advantage, not yet. For now, he must concentrate on fulfilling his duties. He had enough obstacles to overcome, not least being the high walls around the mansion and the guards that patrolled Qarinus' streets night and day. And Seheron was too close for comfort as well.  
  
Perhaps the hope to escape had long since become a lie he could not give up and thus still clung to in order to make it through the day.  
  
Measuring out oats, sugar, a pinch of salt and milk, Lycas stretched to reach a saucepan on its hook above the stove. Then he prepared a platter, fetched a bowl and spoon, and the little pot with honey.  
  
It only took a few minutes to cook the porridge, to let it first boil then simmer, until the oats had dissolved into a runny pap.  
  
Feeding his master, however, would take well over an hour. His stomach clenching at the thought, the leftovers all that he himself would eat for breakfast, Lycas carried the filled tray up the stairs to the corner room.  
  
Lycas washed first his own hands, then Dorian's face, who sat in bed, propped up on two layers of pillows. Allowing a drop of the faintly steaming porridge to fall on his wrist, he quickly licked it off, deeming the temperature just right.  
  
"Breakfast, Master Dorian."  
  
The green eyes continued to stare past him, roughly over his shoulder, but when the spoon touched his lips and pressed gently against them, Dorian opened his mouth. Just a little, but it was enough, and he swallowed after a moment without prompting.  
  
It was like playing pretend, like caring for a man-sized doll.  
  
Lycas had to stop for a moment, because he could not tell whether he felt pity or something much darker and violent. Then he continued to patiently feed his helpless charge, praying to the Creators that he would prove to be better than all the Tevinter men who had wielded power over him.


	11. Prayer

At first there was nothing, just darkness that stretched in all directions, with no gravity to define up and down, left or right.  
  
Dorian was cast adrift in that vastness, searing agony his only companion. It came in waves that rushed through whatever remained of him - His body? His spirit? His ego? - in this desolate, nameless place.  
  
It was funny, really. He had always considered himself somewhat of a scholar, a scientist, a man of learning. That had always been his _natural_ inclination, much to Magister Pavus' delight.  
  
The way Dorian had grown up, groomed for greatness, true pain and fear had been near abstract concepts to him, easily dismissed. Now his own father had taught him a valuable lesson in both, and cruelty and egoism besides.  
  
How could sore muscles, a night spent with too enthusiastic fucking, the blisters of a fire spell gone wrong, or a punishment for tardiness ever compare to what he felt now?  
  
How could sneering faces, lies told through clenched teeth, his first love confession rejected with disgust, or his work on layered spells and their nullification being stolen ever compare to this betrayal?  
  
Whatever could be worse than his own father and mother conspiring to subdue him, trap him, all in order to change him, in the name of their precious eugenics program?  
  
Dorian, those chipping away pieces of him, did not want to find out. His only wish was to drown, to make way for the perfect son his parents so longed for. He was tired of trying, tired of lying, tired of pretending.  
  
 _O Maker, hear my cry:_  
 _Lift me from a world of pain_  
 _Touch me with fire that I be cleansed_  
 _Seat me by Your side in death_


	12. Arrangements Made

"I trust you've read it?"  
  
"I did," Lydia said with a moue of distaste. "Livia's handwriting, her mother's words. Or perhaps I am mistaken and it is the other way around."  
  
She let go of the parchment, watched how it settled on her dressing table, between jars filled with powder and eye shadow. It soaked up spilled drops of wine that made the inked words bloom, and in part dissolve. - Not that she minded.  
  
She had few cares left in this world, where alcohol tasted of sweet oblivion, and she delighted in something as simple as watching the sunlight sparkle on the glass, while her naked foot idly rolled one of the many empty bottles around.  
  
She would need to take a bath, and soon. Her toes had become sticky and the sensation was unpleasant. But here, there were no wagging tongues, no need for decorum. Her bosom could droop, her wrinkles show, a bathrobe served as well as any dress, and a single freckle was no catastrophe. Such a good thing, this time of year, when most nobles fled the great city of Minrathous for their summer homes. It would take two more months, until the beginning of the season, before their absence would even be noticed. Dorian's too, of course.  
  
She smiled hazily and gestured for her flute to be refilled, not at all fazed by her dear husband's disapproving frown. His opinion did hardly count.  
  
"What matters is that she agreed to our terms and the medical procedure."  
  
The gall of that child! Lydia could read between the lines, had played the game for decades, and it was clear to her that Livia was relieved that her marriage would be on paper only, that her future son would inherit everything, with no father in the picture. No need for her to bend and twist and contort herself, trying to turn a blind eye on her husband's inverted nature.  
  
Lucky her! Oh, and how she would support Halward's story, weep pretty tears for Dorian when it was time to mourn his 'sudden passing'. And gladly. Artificial insemination, was it? What a small price to pay for all she would gain!  
  
But her and Dorian's child was guaranteed to be born with an exceptional talent for magic, perfect in mind and body, and that was all Halward cared about, at this point. Ever had, really, but she herself was hardly better.  
  
Lydia scoffed. "Of course she did. She's not the one getting a probe shoved up her lily-white ass."  
  
Halward, usually so imposing in his formal magisterial robes, was starting to look as sour as her, which seemed only just and fitting. His presence alone darkened her private parlor, despite the tastefully arranged flowers and the colorful birds, warbling in their cage.  
  
"I assure you that Dorian will not feel anything."  
  
"Oh, he better, or the whole process will be for naught." Lydia brought a piece of cheese to her lips and nibbled at it. "I'll have Lycas given orders to prepare him for the procedure."  
  
"See that you do."  
  
With that, she was left in blessed solitude, free to have her flute filled once more.


	13. Clap Your Hands

Then there was the flux of energy, like a green mist, that permeated the darkness and took the pain away.  
  
The void broke apart into a formless realm that breathed mana, where a million voices centered around the ruins of a city. Its stones and spires were blackened, the music of its cobblestones silenced, its banners no longer flying without wind.  
  
His new prison turned out to be the Fade, or rather, a small pocket of it. It did not so much reflect what lay beyond the Veil, but his own, half-forgotten memories. All around him, as if roughly stitched together, Dorian saw sights he was very familiar with:  
  
Toys he had loved to play with as a child lay scattered around a wooden box in one corner. Above, with no concern for the laws of physics, liquids bubbled in flasks, placed between towering sheets of papers, all arranged on a wobbly table. A silver platter with sweets held a prominent place as well, as did his long gone, favorite armchair, and a cobbled together bed with a sheet so threadbare it screamed alienage brothel. - And the altar, spattered with blood, and parts of the vault looming above it.  
  
His subconsciousness had a rather eclectic taste when it came to interior decoration. Ah, sarcasm and gallows humor! He must be well on his way to mending his broken heart!  
  
Or perhaps not.  
  
Because the bits and pieces of his life, spanning the years, that were gathered here, were all filled to the brim with bittersweet memories and emotions, that resonated within him. A pain all its own, in light of recent events. It got to the point where he had to close his eyes, just to avoid looking at them.  
  
Dorian found he was absurdly grateful that he could do that much, considering he was as frozen in place as his surroundings, much like a statue. Granted, a true-to-life one, and thus fiendishly handsome, but reduced to immobility nonetheless.  
  
At least there are no demons here, Dorian tried to console himself. But that only served to remind him that he was still a non-magical entity, making him as interesting to the Firstborn as a rock.  
  
All that mana, literally right under his nose, and when he tried to reach for it, it felt like hitting a brick wall. Still, this _was_ the Fade. The metaphysical mirror image of Thedas, the place dreamers and mages visited, the realm were belief and willpower were of paramount importance.  
  
Being a certified genius, Dorian was, of course, painfully aware that he was neither a somniari nor a demon.  
  
Still, in lieu of anything better to do - aside from driving himself insane by reliving each past failure, injustice or even success of his life - Dorian began to wish very, very hard to reconnect with his body.  
  
And, pretty please with sugar on top, his magic.  
  
The opportunity to give his father a piece of his mind, preferably after hitting him with a lightning bolt. Or twenty. And, while he was at it, the perfect boyfriend, the kind that wanted more than a quick fuck and take advantage of the name Pavus.  
  
Oh, who was he kidding?  
  
...even a bottle of wine would do, really. It had been that kind of day.


	14. The Procedure

(Private Notes of Medicus Camio, the Younger)  
  
  
Day 18  
  
Pale. Normal body temperature. Normal breathing. Pulse steady. Preliminary examination of rectum and prostate complete. Results negative. Patient, Dorian Pavus (29), continues to be non-responsive. Anesthetic not required.  
  
Patient is in no mental state to give his informed consent to the procedure. Permission for the semen collection given by his lawful guardian: Magister Halward of House Pavus.  
  
Parents choose to be absent, the designated caretaker, a slave named Lycas, was present and provided supervised assistance as needed. Patient was washed with disinfectant solution and pubic hair shaved, as prior instructed.  
  
Note: The lightning imbued crystal needs to be replaced. Need to consider buying a new frame for the power source as well.  
  
The patient remained in his bed. Right lateral decubitus position with slightly flexed knees chosen for easier access to the genitals. Pressure points padded. Lambskin collection condom used. Well-lubricated rectal probe was introduced with care into the rectal ampulla and stabilized against the anterior wall, level with the seminal vesicles and prostate.  
  
Power source activated, control runes and magical circle stable.  
  
First stimulus cycle lasted 1-2 seconds. Penis became partially erect, testicles drawn up towards the perineum, scrotum tensed and thickened. Mild perspiration, elevated heartbeat and breathing.  
  
Second stimulus cycle lasted 3 seconds. Current increased, mild muscle spasms, but the patient showed no signs of discomfort or awareness, as predicted. Seminal fluid (clear) secreted through urethra.  
  
Third stimulus cycle lasted 5 seconds. Current increased, ejaculation achieved. First and second convulsion produced the greatest quantity of semen. Penis returned to a flaccid state within minutes.  
  
Sample for testing collected and prepared for transport in special container.  
  
Patient sustained minor injuries, infection unlikely. Slave instructed to report should the mild bleeding not stop within the next hour.  
  
Glad this is done and over with, for now. Not much fun to be had with little Dorian, not with the slave watching the proceedings like a hawk. Protective? Disgust? Pity? As Vorenus' former pet he must know how it feels, having things shoved up your ass. He's sly, that one. Just a feeling. And not my problem.  
  
But, it's curious. For a second there I thought Dorian looked... distressed. Must have been my imagination.


	15. I Will Not Bow

For what felt like an eternity, Dorian stood rooted to the spot, a statue hewn from stone, alone with the raging cacophony of his own thoughts and the whispers of his past.  
  
Nothing moved or changed, beyond the flux of mana, that ever present green, that swirled around the edges of his dimensional pocket. The single source of light was a winding vein of raw lyrium, behind him, visible from the corner of his eye.  
  
There was no smell, no sound, no taste, no feeling. Only sight, all other senses deprived of information, and thus no chance for him to deduce anything further about this place, what exactly had gone wrong with the ritual, or how to undo it.  
  
He was a prisoner, and too tired by now to focus his mind to a razor-sharp point, in a fashion similar to shaping a spell.  
  
It was boring. It was infuriating, and surely more than enough to drive a lesser man insane. But Dorian had always been keen to see the bright side of things: at least there were no pigeons to shit on him. That had to count for something.  
  
Only it didn't. He had always used sarcasm and gallows humor, a cocky and vain attitude, to hide facets of himself from others. But there was no fooling himself - he was scared and hurt and alone, and he had no idea whether or not he was still himself.  
  
How was he to know that the ritual had truly failed, had not changed him in some way? What if he woke up, all excited over the idea of marrying Livia Herathinos?  
  
And then everything did change, a new horror emerging, as a shock raced through him, along his spine. It was pain and not, too hot or cold to tell which, and Dorian felt --  
  
 _hands moving him, arranging him on a soft surface, boneless and pliant_  
  
 _cool air, the flutter of muscles, clenching around, something slick and bulbous, pushed inside_  
  
 _deeper, coming to rest within, skin tight, hot, a rush of goosebumps_  
  
 _bruising, burning tissue, his cock slowly filling through the pain, throbbing, leaking_  
  
 _nerve endings singed, singing, another shock, more, forced, used_  
  
\-- his body.  
  
Then nothing, the Fade again an impenetrable wall between him and the physical realm. The short glimpse left a roiling wave of shame and terror behind. Dorian knew what that procedure meant: a child.  
  
A heir for his father, who had given up on him, would dispose of him as soon as he could be sure that Livia was pregnant. Or perhaps, careful as always, Halward would keep him alive until after she had given birth.  
  
His thoughts began to fray, disjointed by panic and disgust and something dangerously close to resignation. Again. Wait. - Was this what he did, had always done, giving up?  
  
The memory of Camio's moon face hovering above him while he pushed a probe into Dorian's arse, the wobbling of his double chin, his tongue, darting out to lick his fat lips, was like a slap in the face that cleared his mind.  
  
There had been a stranger too, watching the humiliating act through his lashes, even though his eyes seemed downcast, his expression a mask of demure subservience. There was a kinship there, somehow, in the depth of their disgust and disdain, both of them trapped.  
  
Unsure how, Dorian still managed to latch on to that, driven by instinct and the vague understanding that if he didn't, he would shatter, get carried into the void, and vanish for good.  
  
He would find a way back, deny his father his heir, his victory. He would leave Tevinter, and live his life as he damn well pleased. No matter the cost.


	16. Dignity

It was getting late, the moon a bright sliver against the darkening sky. The mansion lay silent, now that Medicus Camio had left.  
  
Lycas, convinced that he had heard something, stood frozen in the corridor that led to Master Pavus' corner room, a bucket filled with heated water in each hand. He held his breath and strained his ears, yet they caught nothing but the chorus of cicadas in the gardens outside.  
  
He counted to ten to be sure, then continued on his way, all the while cursing himself for this foolhardy act of kindness.  
  
Using his foot, Lycas pushed the door open he had not completely closed behind himself as he had left for the kitchen. Setting his burden down, a few drops sloshing over one rim, he quickly went to shut it again.  
  
He exhaled a breath of relief that shook with the rapid beating of his heart. For all that his wish to escape was earnest his fear of punishment was a very real thing.  
  
"And here I am, risking my life for a shemlen," Lycas muttered with a resigned sigh.  
  
Not willing to examine too closely what motivated him to do such a thing, he returned to the bed, where his master lay, staring at the ceiling. As the Medicus had promised, the bleeding had stopped within the hour and the gaping swelling abated.  
  
Revulsion prickled along Lycas' spine as he remembered Camio's stone-cold eyes, lit brightly with a perverse glee, fixed on the probe he had moved, too fast and rough.  
  
"I will wash you now, Master Pavus."  
  
Lycas dipped a washcloth into the nearest bucket, wrung the excess water from it and lathered it with soap, then started to wash Dorian's left arm. The skin was warm to the touch, the muscles below firm lines that had begun to weaken through inactivity.  
  
At least he had managed to prevent more bed sores from developing, by moving his charge into a new position every two hours. Rinsing and wringing the cloth, foam rushed through his fingers, and the smell of jasmine rose to fill the room.  
  
Lycas continued to clean, then dry, one part of Dorian's body at a time, keeping his touch both gentle and impersonal, while making sure to keep the rest of him covered with a soft blanket.  
  
He only stopped to pull the second bucket closer, the water inside still clean and at least lukewarm, good enough for the less sensitive areas, the legs and feet. He would not venture out a second time, not with Marcus likely to wander the halls past midnight.  
  
Lycas last action for that day was to clothe his unresponsive master into a new gown and diaper, and make him comfortable for the night. Then he crawled into his own cot, not surprised at all when his dreams were haunted by memories of Magister Vorenus.  
  
He had always complained that Lycas was a costly pet, wasting so much soap and hot water.


	17. Visitation

Dorian suddenly found himself standing beside a bed. Or rather, in-between the physical realm where his abused body lay and the Fade.  
  
He could raise his hand but not move his lower extremities, much to his instant frustration. His palm looked as insubstantial as a beam of light. Dorian wiggled his fingers. They were bluish-gray, like the rest of him.  
  
"Oh, how marvelous! I'm a ghost!" Dorian rolled his eyes, somehow not surprised that his words echoed as if he were in a great cavern, not a guest-sized room, and that he only heard them within his own mind. "What, I can't punch my dear father so I have to be content haunting him?"  
  
He reached out to touch the wall, that horrible, gilded flower-pattern tapestry of their Qarinus mansion, but never made contact. His hand melted away and the familiar view of his pocket in the Fade began to overlay his field of vision.  
  
"How odd," he noted and pulled back, less disconcerted than having arrived at the point where anything at all happening was a more than welcome change. "How does that work, exactly?"  
  
Of course there was no answer forthcoming and pondering the theoretically impossible seemed unlikely to get him one. Thus Dorian gave in to morbid curiosity and inspected his body.  
  
He was covered with a blanket and lying on his back, empty eyes staring straight ahead. There was something very unsettling about the way his body breathed and blinked, the rhythm too even, almost mechanical.  
  
A puppet, not unlike the anatomical models - or rather enchanted golems - that mimicked human vital signs, those that medici used, during their studies.  
  
"Creepy."  
  
Dorian tried to pick up anything from it, as he had during that revolting procedure, but there was nothing except his own disgust and shame. It felt like insects, crawling beneath his skin, leaving him with the fervent wish to scour himself clean.  
  
The door opened, startling him, and a slave came in, carrying two buckets from which steam rose. Not needing much time to take in the most pertinent details, a cropped ear, for example, Dorian felt a wave of anger rush through him.  
  
"Brilliant! Magister Halward leaves his once so precious heir in the tender care of a rabbit." Dorian spat the words, only getting more worked up when the elf remained completely oblivious to his presence. "Naturally, because a slave who tried to escape twice is so much cheaper."  
  
He cut his own rant abruptly short, noting the care and relief with which the slave had shut the door. How he leaned against it and muttered to himself - as if he had done something he was not supposed to...  
  
Wait, was that slave the stranger Dorian had caught a glimpse of? It was hard to tell, considering that his perspective of the events had been distorted by the Fade. - Not to forget that an anal probe grilling your prostate was also highly distracting.  
  
Curiosity winning out, cooling his temper, Dorian scrutinized the elf, as much as the near darkness in the room allowed. He was young, perhaps in his mid-twenties, and tall for his kind. Lithe, slender, graceful on his feet. His hair was tied back, falling well over his shoulders, eyes a rare shade of icy blue. No visible scars, except for the puckered curve of his mutilated ear.  
  
Something in the way he moved and held himself made Dorian suspect that he had been a rich magister's status symbol.  
  
"And here I thought what you knew of me could hardly fill a thimble," Dorian mused, his chuckle bitter. "And then you go, hiring a slave who is just my type, as if to taunt me."  
  
His anger gone, misplaced to begin with since a slave had no choice, and far less so while living under the heel of Halward Pavus and his right-hand man, Dorian resigned himself to his role of ghostly observer.  
  
And what he saw - "Oh."  
  
It was a faint sound, and he had to swallow thickly around a sudden lump in his throat. Because the slave was washing his body, obviously out of his own accord. Dorian could not feel the soaked cotton cloth or his hands, the trickle of warm water. But he saw how the elf took care to protect his dignity by keeping him covered, and that neither his look nor touch lingered.  
  
Gratitude was far from a foreign concept to Dorian, no matter that he liked to pretend otherwise in certain circles, but he could not remember the last time he had felt it so keenly.  
  
"Thank you."  
  
Then there was a ripple in the air, like a pebble, thrown into a pond that created waves fringed with green sparks. His connection was fading - and gone.


	18. The Inner Eye

"Shemlen," Lycas muttered under his breath, tasting the word out loud, its shape foreign on his tongue.  
  
He continued to scrub furiously at a stain on the floor that refused to fade, blood reduced to something sticky and not quite brown, fingers aching around the wood of the brush, that was almost too big for his small hands.  
  
"Hush, da’ean."  
  
Lycas bowed his head closer to the ground, slid forward and to the right, to try another angle. The stone was hot, burning his scraped knees. He kept an eye on his mae, who in turn watched Griff on his rounds. The whip the overseer carried whistled through the air, a warning hiss, followed by a groan of pain.  
  
His mae smiled at him, to reassure and calm, but Lycas felt fear prickle along his spine, raising the fine hairs at the back of his neck. But he had to be strong for his mother, like Nestor always said, and so he returned her nod.  
  
"I will explain later."  
  
It was a whispered promise, drowned in the splash of water and bubbling soap, the scratching of iron bristles, all used to erase the last traces of a slave who had dared to insult his betters.  
  
XXX  
  
Later meant at night, when they lay curled up around each other, huddling in the straw.  
  
The smell of hay and horses was strong here, right above the stables, but there was only one guard to fear, doing his rounds, steel ringing with his heavy steps. Other than that, there was no sound, except for soft snoring.  
  
"Do you remember what I told you of Arlathan?" Ianthe wanted to know, her breath warm on his skin.  
  
Lycas nodded. Her green eyes, so close now, fascinated him. They caught what light remained, glowing like a cat's. His mother was beautiful, with her long hair and pointed ears, the branching lines of her vallaslin.  
  
The blood writing marked her as Dalish. He did not quite understand, but being part of the people, that was something rare and special here in Tevinter, even among the other slaves.  
  
"Very good, ‘Ma’da’ean," she praised, gently ruffling Lycas' curls. "Then you will also remember that the elvhen of old were immortal. When they first met the humans, intruding on their lands, to them they seemed to live and die in the blink of an eye. Thus, they called them 'shemlen' – quicklings."  
  
Lycas pondered that for a moment, fighting a yawn. His muscles ached from a long day's work, and his head hurt a little from the relentless sun. But he had been lucky: scrubbing the floors and tending the crops was better work than digging the new latrine.  
  
"But we do die," Lycas finally settled on saying, the memory of Belen being whipped until he had stopped to move vivid before his mind's eye. "We get old and wrinkly, just like the humans."  
  
There was a snort that came not from one of the horses below, and Lycas imagined Nestor glaring at him good-naturedly. He was the eldest among them, yet still strong as an ox. He lay two rows further down, however, so he would not dare to join their hushed conversation.  
  
"That is true. As they spent more time with the humans, the people too became mortal, their magic fading."  
  
Lycas frowned, trying to stay awake, as his lids grew heavy. "Why?"  
  
"No one knows." Soft lips kissed his nose, the words fading into his dreams. "Sleep well."  
  
XXX  
  
Dorian watched the scenes play out, until they dissolved into the currents of the Fade, like a pattern written into the sand that the next wave carried away. If he strained his senses he could now even see the slave, lying in his cot, dreaming.  
  
So far, he had been accused of a lot of unsavory things. Being a nosy bastard, why yes, that had come up too. Together with being vain, cocky, self-absorbed, gorgeous... - No, wait, the last one, while true, wasn't exactly an insult.  
  
Still, Dorian had never before spied on someones' memories. Lived them, in a way, like an echo, one of sharp fear, exhaustion, oppression, and the deep bond a mother and son could share. - He quite envied the latter.  
  
It was fascinating, thrilling, really, considering that he spent the rest of his time as a statue or - and this was, at least, still new - a ghost.  
  
...it was also far more entertaining and appealing than watching how his body was fed, bathed, and his arse wiped clean of shit. That had gotten old rather fast; not that he wasn't grateful.  
  
However, Dorian began to feel guilty and uncomfortable soon enough. He was, after all, Tevinter, an Altus mage, the son of a magister. In a nutshell, 'the enemy.' Thus, the slave - to him, sadly, still nameless - would hardly have taken Dorian, of all people, into his confidence, far less voluntarily shared such an intimate memory with him.  
  
Besides, Dorian had watched him now a great deal, and he liked what he saw. Flirting would have been nice. Talking, finding out more. As such, he would have preferred to ask the slave about himself, not have his innermost self served on a silver platter. - After all, where was the fun in that?  
  
Pondering everything that had happened so far, Dorian-the-statue stared ahead, at the assorted items of his past, and came to the obvious conclusion: that elf was his best chance to escape.  
  
The one thing he wanted, Dorian could give him, in exchange for his help. Now, how in the Maker's name was he supposed to make him that offer?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos for the elvhen goes to: "Project Elvhen" by FenxShiral!


	19. No Sell

For as long as Lycas could remember his dreams had been filled with green.  
  
He would fall asleep and wake to a strange world, where the sky was a dark void bereft of stars, and the wind carried whispers both compelling and cruel. The ruins of a city with great spires loomed on the horizon, always, no matter how far he wandered.  
  
Nothing more was there, just ragged boulders and curious items, a lit candle there, a chair with an embroidered pillow here, odds and ends, as if collected by someone and then cast aside.  
  
And of course the green, surging and swirling through the air like a fine, colored mist. Whatever it truly was, it felt warm where it touched Lycas' skin, when he inhaled it, as if it seeped into a core hidden deep within him.  
  
He would feel safe and comfortable there, as he had held in his mother's arms.  
  
Only once had he been restless instead, frantic to leave, sure that something with hungry eyes hounded his steps. That had been on the night he had killed Magister Vorenus, yet the feeling had vanished with the coming of dawn.  
  
Now he seemed to have finally carried it back with him into the waking world. - Lycas felt as if his every move was watched, as if a presence was right behind him. But when he turned, no one was there.  
  
After three days of this Lycas' felt outright jumpy, his nerves scrubbed raw.  
  
So when night came and the green dream with it, and he happened upon what seemed, at first, to be a statue, that then suddenly spoke to him, Lycas did what everyone sensible would have done:  
  
Slapped it. _Hard_.


	20. Welcome Back

Dorian worked his jaw from left to right, stretching the tendons and testing the integrity of the bone, one hand raised as if to hold it all together.  
  
His ear was still ringing, and his head had snapped around so fast that he had to fight a wave of nausea. He had never before considered himself in possession of a glass chin, but, as with many Elves, the slave had proven that he was far stronger than he looked.  
  
Life as a granite statue had come and gone as sudden as it had begun, taking its dubious perk of durability with it at the worst possible moment.  
  
"Ow," Dorian muttered, a little less dead-pan than whiny. He sighed, a long rush of breath that disturbed the swirling patterns of mana. "Now that went well. But, I suppose I deserved that."  
  
And he did. Most dreamers in the Fade, especially those without magical talent, never came into contact with others, far less spirits, demons or something as bizarre as the curious case of one Dorian Pavus. He should write a treatise about his experiences in the Fade, sell it on Tevinter's black market as one more act of rebellion.  
  
Such delightful academic prospects aside, there was also a more serious matter to consider.  
  
Dorian had felt it, when they had briefly touched, skin on skin. - He was somehow siphoning mana off the slave. Not the raw energy, but the charged essence. He had become Dorian's living tether to the physical realm in more than a metaphorical sense. And the connection was far more sophisticated and deep running than he had initially assumed.  
  
That wasn't good, not at all. It was dangerous, and potentially life-threatening.  
  
Worse, only a very fine line separated this phenomenon from draining a person. He had not condemned blood magic all his life to now commit an equally atrocious act. That it was, most likely, Halward's fault did nothing to change the fact that Dorian was the mage here, so it was his responsibility to – wait.  
  
Unless... No, impossible.  
  
Still pondering his sudden idea Dorian almost noticed too late that the Fade had begun to change around him, and then he was --  
  
\-- thrashing and bucking like a beached fish afraid of dying.  
  
He felt the sting of sunlight in his eyes before they rolled back, leaving him in the dark, and the pain as his spine arched and twisted in a great convulsion that rattled his teeth and the whole bed.  
  
It was instinct, that made him lash out when hands tried to get a hold of him.  
  
XXX  
  
Lycas clung to the rim of the bath tub, trying to catch his breath that the impact of a clenched fist and an explosion of hot air had forced out of his lungs.  
  
He could feel a moist patch spreading on his back, where the copper edge had caught him. He ignored the pain and rushed back to the bed, where his keening charge was having a seizure that was frightening to behold.  
  
Unsure what needed to be done, he trusted in his first instinct and tried to keep Dorian still, to prevent him from hurting himself. His hands and feet flayed around, hit the wooden bed frame and headboard, and Lycas ended up half sitting on him, using his weight to trap and limbs to restrain him.  
  
"Master Pavus, please calm --!"  
  
Lycas bit his tongue and hissed, as one more hit glanced his already bruised ribs. He leaned closer, and, since he had no hand left free, used his own head, to force his master's down into the soft pillow.  
  
Sweat-soaked hair brushed his temple, and nothing but white stared back at him, less than an inch away. The foamy drool that had gathered around Dorian's mouth seeped into Lycas' collar, and he felt the rising heat and tension, as their muscles strained, locked in battle against each other.  
  
Lycas only noticed that he had begun to mutter soothing nonsense in Elvhen when the horrible noise in his ringing ears stopped, and the body beneath him went limp with a pained sob.  
  
"Master Pavus?"  
  
Lycas waited a moment, not only hoping for an answer, but also listening intently. But despite the time of day, there was no sound of rushing footsteps beyond the door, nor on the stairs. The mansion lay silent.  
  
Worried that his actions had harmed his charge against his best intentions, Lycas carefully sat up - and was pulled back down by a hand that had taken a shaky hold of his tunic.  
  
Dorian Pavus was staring up at him, fingers twitching in the bunched up fabric pressed against Lycas' chest, right above where his heart raced. He was trying to speak, the urgency and frustration behind each failed attempt only surpassed by the raw fear in his eyes.  
  
"It's all right, Master Dorian. No one is coming," Lycas reassured him, remembering all too well the screaming and howling he had heard, back then, locked in a dank cell. "Master Halward has left for Minrathous. Take your time."  
  
"D-don't." Dorian licked his dry lips. "Tell them. Please."  
  
Lycas had been given standing orders to immediately report any change in his charge's condition. Absolute obedience was all that stood between him and a death that would not be quick, and Dorian must have known it too.  
  
It had taken nothing but selfless kindness to get his mother killed, Lycas reminded himself. He would not make the same mistake.  
  
But his tongue had other ideas, letting words slip past his lips without any regard for their far-reaching consequences. "I won't."


	21. A Layer of Harmony

Livia Herathinos was young and beautiful, like a rose spun of fiery red and cream white.  
  
Her skin was unblemished, heart-shaped face framed by carefully arranged curls, and her eyes shone with a wicked sort of intelligence. An expensive dress made of silk flattered her lithe body and full bosom, falling to cover her long legs in folds that resembled petals, as was in fashion.  
  
She had arrived no two hours earlier by carriage, under the guard of a hawk-eyed matron she had immediately dismissed. It had taken three slaves to unload her luggage, a veritable shower of bandboxes, trunks, and wooden chests. And those contained, of course, only the bare necessities needed to make herself at home, here in Qarinus, until such a time that Medicus Camio had successfully impregnated her.  
  
Already she had grown fond of her role of martyrdom, cultivated an air of understated suffering, to remind House Pavus that she was owed a great debt of gratitude. - Lydia could hardly stand her sight, and yet her husband had abandoned her to attend to some urgent magisterial business in the capital, leaving her to play the perfect host.  
  
"I know dinner time is drawing near," Livia said, returning her tea cup to its saucer with the delicate chink of gilded china meeting its like, "but I had hoped to see him today."  
  
"Of course." Lydia returned her smile politely, hiding her own thorns with just as much grace as that preening little bitch. She stood, smoothing down her gown to hide the trembling of her fingers, that longed to cradle a flute filled with wine. "Please, this way."  
  
They left the drawing room behind and wound their way deeper into the mansion, towards the eldest wing, where no carpets muffled their echoing steps.  
  
"How wise of you, to choose such a remote location to house Dorian," Livia commented with false sympathy. "I am sure the silence must be a comfort."  
  
"There is none to be had for a mother's broken heart," Lydia muttered demurely, eyes drawn to the door they were fast approaching, the one to the corner room she had only dared to enter once. "As for Dorian, he is beyond any care."  
  
Other than Lydia, her guest did not hesitate to open the door and step inside with a swish of her skirts - nor to slap the elven slave who happened to block the entrance, and had not been quick enough to back away and drop to his knees.  
  
"Forgive me, domina."  
  
Lydia could see the red of a hand print blooming on Lycas' cheek, the thin lines left by long nails. "Get out."  
  
"As you wish, domina."  
  
She waited until after the slave was gone, his footsteps fading in the direction of the stairs and kitchen, then turned to Livia with a mild frown. "I thank you not to damage our property."  
  
"What does it matter?" Livia asked, moving closer to the bed with undisguised curiosity. She shuddered delicately as she beheld Dorian's state, his slack face, the shape of the diaper showing under the blanket. She caressed his cheek, fully aware that, had his mind not been destroyed, he would have hated to be touched by her. Only then did she turn back to her host. "He is just a rabbit. One that knows too much. - I trust he will soon be disposed of."  
  
"Of course," Lydia readily agreed. "However, it is a matter of principle. It is my duty and privilege to oversee my husband's household in his absence. That includes any and all punishments that the slaves, sadly, so often require."  
  
"My apologies." Livia curtsied with a dancer's grace and a smile that was surely meant to be more innocent than it looked in practice. "I'm aware you did that. For the longest time."  
  
A much younger version of herself might have stood there, speechless at such gall, to find her position so openly challenged. As it was, Lydia laughed, delighted at the prospect of educating this foolish little girl in the ways of the great game. Dorian had abhorred it, despite his sharp wit and tongue, had always been too sympathetic to crush his opponents. Well, Livia seemed unlikely to have such qualms.  
  
"Never play your hand too early, my dear."  
  
They shared a measuring look then, the bed and its sleeping occupant between them, and decided that they rather liked each other after all.


	22. No Time Like Now

Dorian let go of his raging thoughts, releasing them one by one, until both his mind and body lay still and placid in deep meditation. - Not at all unlike the empty husk he had been less than five minutes ago.  
  
This exercise, and many more of its like, was part of any mages most basic training, meant to hone and sharpen the focus necessary to first pierce the Veil and then shape the Fade's raw mana into the construct of a spell. The intuitive counterpart to complex formulas and the laws of metaphysics.  
  
Having begun his magical education as a child far younger than most, this had been the half of the whole Dorian had struggled with for an agonizingly long time. Needless to say, he had come to loathe these particular lessons, and now they may well save his life. What delicious irony!  
  
Still, as easy as meditation now came to him, it required some mental preparation. And time. At the cost of bodily harm, the elven slave had bought it for him, blocking the entrance after having quickly set the room and bed to rights.  
  
Dorian managed not to flinch, hearing the resounding slap.  
  
"Forgive me, domina."  
  
Many layers of fabric rustled and swished, and Dorian realized that the elf had been right in his assessment that more than one person was on their way here. His next inhalation carried the smell of perfumes - fruity mildness warred with familiar heavy musk and spice.  
  
"Get out."  
  
Dorian supposed he should feel something, hearing his mother's voice, but nothing more than a faint ache remained. Not even anger or hatred stirred. The truth was that a string of nursemaids, servants, and private tutors had raised him, not Lydia, and then he had been sent off to the Circle in Vyrantium.  
  
He had felt homesick as a green apprentice. And as a child, he had sought her out. But while his father's attention and praise could be earned with academic success, Lydia had always been occupied with her social life, her parties, balls, and receptions, the game, the bottom of a wine bottle.  
  
Such a simple truth. Why had he never dared to face it before now?  
  
"As you wish, domina."  
  
His thoughts returning to the present, Dorian heard the slave leave, light footsteps all but swallowed by the louder noise of heels. Who else was there? He had a sinking feeling that he knew - who but Livia Herathinos would his father allow to see him in this state?  
  
"I thank you not to damage our property."  
  
Curiously, it was that callous comment that instantly managed to raise his ire, - only shame was quick to follow. Recent events might have begun to change his mind on the subject, but Dorian did not consider himself a hypocrite. He had found fault with many aspects of Tevinter society, yet not once had he questioned the institution of slavery it was built upon. Slaves had simply been a part of his every day life. They faded to nothing, into the background, only noticed when they failed to fulfill their duties.  
  
"What does it matter?"  
  
Dorian was unprepared for Livia's voice, so close by his side that her warm breath fanned his skin, or the one long finger that touched his cheek in the mockery of a caress. The way it made him feel, the manicured nail might well have been the edge of a dagger, held to his throat.  
  
"He is just a rabbit. One that knows too much. - I trust he will soon be disposed of."  
  
"Of course."  
  
The rest of their conversation, Dorian paid no heed, though he was keenly aware that Livia and Lydia seemed to have made their peace by the time they left. That could have complicated matters were it not for the fact that his mother would be occupied playing host for the future mother of her grandchild.  
  
No, there was no time left for elaborate plans.  
  
Camio was bound to follow on Livia's heels. They had to make their escape within the next few days, before he arrived, and while Halward was still occupied in Minrathous.


	23. Partners...

Dorian rubbed at the back of his neck. His hair had grown longer than he was used to, undercut all but gone, and it tickled his skin, caught in the mild evening breeze that blew in through the open window.  
  
He also used the gesture to hide that a tremor shook his fingers, not to mention his nervous anticipation and rising worry about the less than stellar shape he was in.  
  
Sitting up in bed without help had been an exertion, making his blood rush in his ears and heart pounding in his chest. Dark spots had come and gone to dance in his field of vision, leaving him light-headed. Worse, the flow of his mana was still disrupted, meaning that he was bound to faint should he try to do so much as light a candle.  
  
That did not bode at all well for his ingenious - by virtue of being, in theory, very simple - escape plan. As it was, everything hinged on the elf's willingness and success in procuring the one item of vital importance they could not do without. That, and a dragon-sized shit pile of audacity.  
  
Asking him to take such a risk made Dorian feel like the lowest kind of selfish parasite to ever crawl across Thedas.  
  
Some cruel people best not to be named might have considered such a worthwhile lesson in humility that one Dorian of House Pavus had a long time coming. Only that wasn't the problem at all, if he were to be honest.  
  
No, what made him all but squirm under the slave's narrow-eyed look was the knowledge that he was already up to his mustache indebted to him. Even the promise of freedom and an escape route that led far beyond Tevinter's borders did not seem enough to ever repay him for what he had done for Dorian. - And he had not even had a chance to tell him about, and deal with, that unfortunate magical bond they were sharing.  
  
... which was, given the current tension, probably a very good thing.  
  
"My apologies, for asking so much of you," Dorian said into the stretching silence. He raised his trembling hands, giving up all effort to disguise the weakness he was so keenly aware of. "All the more as I won't be much help until after we've reached the city gate."  
  
His decision was made: best to lay the cards on the table. Anything but honesty seemed more than likely to get them killed in the long run. They would need to depend on each other. And as Dorian wanted them to be equal partners in this mad scheme, why, he might as well start to earn the elf's trust.  
  
"I'll do it."  
  
That had come more readily than Dorian would have expected. He had to admit, he found it overall difficult to read the elf. His facial expressions gave away little of what he felt or thought.  
  
"Are you sure?"  
  
"The moment I wasn't used as a blood sacrifice but instead asked to care for you I knew that I would be disposed of sooner or later," the elf stated matter-of-fact. "Best to act now, when there is hope to succeed than sit idly, waiting for death."  
  
"I meant no offense," Dorian hastily assured, feeling a little like a clumsy dowager that had stepped on her dancing partner's foot right on the first turn. "In fact, I wholeheartedly agree."  
  
The elf took a deep, fortifying breath, eyes already fixed on the door. "Then I'll be going."  
  
"Just one other thing." Dorian waited for him to turn around, the question burning on the tip of his tongue; an answer was long overdue. "What is your name?"  
  
"Lycas."  
  
With that, Dorian was left behind to work on his own task, namely, to get his pudding-like legs to cooperate.


	24. Of Vital Importance

Lycas held his breath and flattened himself against the wall, trying to become one with the shadows beneath the staircase. One of Lady Pavus' servants rushed past without seeing him, carrying a cask of wine towards the source of laughter one level below.  
  
He waited a moment, listening, then continued down the hallway, past the stilted smiles of portraits in their golden frames. Master Halward's study lay straight ahead, and as Dorian had assured him, the door was not locked.  
  
Lycas slipped inside the dark room. At first, the lack of light blinded him, but his eyes were quick to adjust. Furniture revealed itself: a heavy desk with stacks of vellum, an armchair by the fireplace, shelves filled to bursting with leather-bound books.  
  
Another door led inside the laboratory. Lycas hesitated on the threshold, eying the chalked lines of a magical circle with unease. It dominated the room, framed on two sides by tables that bowed under an assortment of flasks, filled with colorful liquids, bundles of herbs, and tools that gleamed silver in a stray ray of almost gone sunlight.  
  
Something lingered there, a presence of power, that raised the fine hairs on his arms.  
  
"Too late to turn back," Lycas whispered.  
  
He had made his choice. That his options were few to begin with did not change that fact, nor that he expected Dorian to use and then discard him. Perhaps the mage was an honest man, would keep his promise, but Lycas could not trust that easily. Not any more.  
  
Two determined steps brought him inside, in view of a third table, that stood to the far left. Beside it a mage's staff leaned against the wall, that looked like three drakes twined together, growing out of the dark wood. Their eyes shone with inset crystals, their scales no simple carved lines, but a pattern of runes. Not far lay a bundle of neatly folded clothes, a small leather pouch - and the pendant he had come for.  
  
The seal of House Pavus.  
  
Lycas was more accustomed to ill luck than its fair sister. Thus, finding it so easily felt to him like the promise of a trap. - He gathered the items regardless.


	25. See Farther Than My Name, My Race, My Skin

"You're a marvel!" Dorian exclaimed. "I send you off on a suicide mission, and you not only come back with the pendant but the rest of my earthly possessions!"  
  
He would be only too happy to exchange the hospital gown he still wore - which was an insult to any fashionable nobleman, garish green and far too airy down below - for his own clothes. That his staff was back within reach too, its crystals charged enough for one or two simple spells, helped all the more to lift his spirits.  
  
Only after he had taken a few weak-kneed steps and reached for the bundle still held in Lycas' arms Dorian began to worry that he had managed to put his foot in his mouth, as the colloquialism went.  
  
His words were, sadly, all too often taken at face value by those unaccustomed to the great game, those that lacked any regard for subtlety, hidden meanings, and the delight that was witticism. As such, he frequently offended were he wished to dazzle and charm, or - as was the case now - to cover his nerves, that were as jumpy as drugged frogs.  
  
But no, Lycas had been the intimate companion of a magister once. So surely -- Ah, would wonders never cease?  
  
The corners of Lycas' mouth twitched, as if a smile was trying to escape the blank mask he had cultivated in the name of survival. Had he blinked, Dorian might have missed it, but as it was, he was perfectly willing to call it progress.  
  
"Thank you."  
  
"You're welcome." Lycas handed him the bundle. "Your plan will work better with you wearing them. - Hurry."  
  
"Right."  
  
And Dorian did his best. But while the trousers, boots, and light tunic caused him no trouble, he was soon lost in depths of his robe, with parts of the stiff collar wedged against his Adam's apple. Like a fool, in his haste he had forgotten to loosen one of the leather straps.  
  
Dorian sighed explosively. "Could you lend me a hand?"  
  
For a moment he felt like the cork in a bottle as the robe was twisted and pulled around him, the next he could breathe unhindered by linen. Feeling mildly dizzy, tired out already, Dorian held still as Lycas finished helping him dress, with the practiced ease of any body slave. The only things left for him to do was to adjust his leather vambraces, put on gloves, and to tie the money pouch to his belt.  
  
"Once more: thank you."  
  
Lycas shook his head, back to standing with his eyes downcast. Somehow, Dorian found that sight distasteful. It was as if all vibrancy had drained from the elf, leaving him the less for it.  
  
"I am your slave. Or have you forgotten, dominus?"  
  
"Not when it's just the two of us," Dorian insisted. "And only as part of our ruse. This will stop as soon as we leave Tevinter territory."  
  
"So you said."  
  
"So I promised," Dorian corrected, not surprised but all the same a little miffed that his integrity was called into question. "I gave you my word and I will keep it. I'm aware this must be difficult for you, that you have every reason to distrust, even hate me. I admit what you already know, that I grew up around slaves and never wasted a second thought on them, their situation, their suffering."  
  
Now he had Lycas' undivided attention, but it seemed his blunt honesty had done more good than harm, as he had hoped, so Dorian persisted. "But even so, please, give me the chance to prove myself."  
  
At that point, he had no longer expected a violent reaction, and thus he was too slow to react as Lycas suddenly lunged for him, quick as a striking snake.


	26. Sparkler

Dark spots and bursting spheres of light began to dance in front of his eyes. The room around him lost focus as everything narrowed down to his assailant, the weight of a body, the impact of fists, that opened only to wrap around his throat. His lungs began to burn for air, and Lycas bucked and struggled like a trapped animal.  
  
Suddenly, pins and needles rushed through him. The hot breath of a surprised grunt, stinking of onions and beer, was blown into his face. He could see Marcus' eyes roll back a second before he went limp, crumpling on top of him. Lycas twisted and pushed him off, glad to simply lie there and breathe. - And that his hand, knuckles bloody from the fight, was finally free, no longer pinned under the crushing force of a boot.  
  
"Lycas!" Dorian stared down at him, looking more pale than ever. "Are you all right?"  
  
Sucking in air and coughing, Lycas could only nod and massage his throat, that felt raw as if scraped from the inside. He had been strangled before, as part of Vorenus' sick games that had often preluded sex, but never like this, with the intent to kill.  
  
He had seen Marcus sneak up on Dorian, who had stood with his back to the door. He had been remarkably silent on his feet for a human and too close by then to shout a warning. Lycas had acted without thinking and pulled the mage out of harm's way. And now Marcus was lying on the carpet, unmoving, except for the slow rise and fall of his chest.  
  
"Thank you," Lycas forced the words out, then stopped and grimaced. His voice had been reduced to a husky croak and was likely to remain that way for a while longer. "What have you done to him?"  
  
"Overloaded his nervous system," Dorian answered, not without a certain dark glee. He sat down on the bed, clearly too exhausted to remain standing, and used his staff to prod Marcus' side. "My affinity lies with lightning elemental magic. - Say, did you feel anything?"  
  
Lycas shrugged, not deaf to the worry in Dorian's voice, but occupied with inspecting his most recent share of scratches and bruises. He could barely remember a day when nothing had hurt.  
  
"Just a tingling."  
  
"I'm glad," Dorian said, with a small but warm smile. "For a moment there I had feared otherwise. I'm not exactly at the top of my game, and relying on mana-imbued crystals..."  
  
Dorian shook his head in a gesture that seemed caught between embarrassed and apologetic. Perhaps he was unwilling to discuss things further with someone who was not a mage or had decided that they simply lacked the time for long explanations. Which was true, and he could not have known that the topic of magic fascinated Lycas, as many things did that were forbidden for slaves.  
  
"Well," Dorian continued, "let's just say that my usually so envied fine control leaves much to be desired right now."  
  
Lycas regained his feet, feeling sharp and alert in the aftermath of the short-lived struggle. Hopefully it would last, and be enough for two. "What about him?"  
  
"He'll be out cold for at least a few hours, after which he'll wake with a truly magnificent headache. An unduly lenient punishment for attempted murder, to be sure," Dorian said, and emphasized his generosity with another poke, this time aiming for Marcus' kidney. "Best to gag and truss him up. We can stash him in the dressing room."  
  
With the help of a knife he had nicked from the kitchen, Lycas made quick work of a bed sheet. He knotted the long strips together, then dragged Marcus by his feet into the adjacent room, where he used them to bind his hands and feet. The last piece he stuffed into Marcus' mouth, mindful to try and find a compromise between preventing him from choking on it and reducing the danger that he would spit it out as soon as he woke.  
  
Checking the improvised ropes one last time, Lycas hid the blade in his shoe and picked up his own little bundle, a folded blanket that contained nothing more but food and a tinderbox.  
  
"Ready?"  
  
"Not really," Dorian admitted. "But needs must."


	27. Guards! Guards!

The city of Qarinus, due to its strategic importance and relative proximity to Seheron, was heavily fortified.  
  
Lycas had known that. He had heard, through the open windows, the footsteps of armed guards doing their rounds, passing the Pavus mansion no less than once every hour. He had also seen, leaning outside with his elbows on the sill, the first of its three walls. The even teeth of its crenelation had seemed to gnaw at the setting sun.  
  
Standing in front of the city gate made it more real, though. Both the feeling of confinement that suddenly choked him, and the promise of freedom.  
  
Despite the hour, a cluster of people was waiting to be admitted into the inner ring, wishing to come and go in both directions. A few more were instead gathered to peruse the notice board, where taxes, tolls and other announcements were made public. Their discussions rose and fell in a steady murmur, only interrupted by the commanding voices of the guards, the shuffle of feet as the next in line was called forward, and the cries of settling sea gulls that drifted across the darkening sky.  
  
Dorian, who had used his staff for the better part of the way as a walking stick, had stopped just out of sight and quickly fastened it to the leather harness he wore strapped to his back. Then he had continued at a brisk pace that echoed between the buildings, with Lycas following like a shadow in his wake.  
  
The rich in their finery, the merchants with bales of silk, and the less fortunate, all had taken one look at him and parted to let Dorian through. Lycas had not been surprised by their reaction: Even those that would not recognize the scion of House Pavus by sight would be able to identify him as an altus mage. That elevated position within Tevinter society alone afforded Dorian a number of privileges that laetans, praeteri, and soporati in particular, could only dream of.  
  
"Master Pavus." A soldier, already advanced in age, blocked their path right under the looming portcullis. "It is good to see you well."  
  
"Captain Raban." Dorian inclined his head in greeting. "Why wouldn't I be? Please do not tell me that you fell for those baseless rumors! It is hardly a novel idea, that a mage would choose his family estate to hide from polite society."  
  
Lycas, ignored behind his master's back, was the only one to see a younger guardsman make a lewd gesture, that made it clear what activities he suspected Dorian had been up to in the privacy of his mansion.  
  
"Of course," Captain Raban agreed. His almost avuncular demeanor, indicating prior acquaintance, made way for officialdom as he reached for a writing board that lay on a nearby table. He filled out the first empty space on the document, then asked, "Destination?"  
  
"The harbor. I hope to book passage on a ship to Vyrantium," Dorian answered with a long-suffering sigh. "I'm being recalled on Circle business."  
  
"How rude," Raban commented dryly, and though Lycas could not see it, he was sure that the two of them shared a conspiratorial smile. "I fear that will not be possible, Master Pavus."  
  
"And why would that be? Please, enlighten me."  
  
"Standing orders, due to rising tensions with Seheron. Only military vessels and merchants with special permission are allowed to make and leave port. The transportation of civilians is a punishable offense."  
  
"I see," Dorian commented with a careless shrug, as if it didn't matter. "Then the Hadarius Gate."  
  
Captain Raban, judging by his deeply furrowed brow, seemed tempted to comment, perhaps even ask if Dorian was in some kind of trouble, but decided against it. His pen scraped over the paper and then he motioned for Dorian to sign. A bell tolled and from within the gatehouse wafted the smell of stew; shift change.  
  
Inspecting the signature, all elegant curls, Captain Raban nodded. "You may pass, Master Pavus. Safe travels."  
  
Following the main street, that now sloped downwards in a gentle curve, Dorian suddenly chuckled. "Good old Raban. He was stationed in Vyrantium during the early years of my apprenticeship. I was quite the pint-sized menace. - You wouldn't believe how often he had to drag me back to the Circle."  
  
"Dominus," Lycas muttered non-committally.  
  
He could well imagine it, a younger version of Dorian, arguing with his much older peers, chasing them down the corridors with threats of lightning bolts, and sneaking away to explore the city. Vorenus had found it amusing to no end, that 'Halward's offspring, of all people!' was 'a rake in the making'. - Still, this was neither the time nor place to start reminiscing, especially not between master and slave.  
  
A few minutes of silent walking later they had reached the hustle and bustle of the market. Most of the colorful stalls would be open throughout the night, and the air was ripe with the sweet fragrance of perfume and exotic fruits, the sizzling of meat, chatter and laughter. Slaves were busy carrying what their masters had bought, and rising above all was music, as artists and other performers vied for attention.  
  
Deeming it safe enough, Lycas moved closer so that Dorian would hear his whisper over the noise. "What now?"  
  
"On foot, we can reach Carastes by tomorrow evening," Dorian muttered back, his lips barely moving. "We'll rest for the night, then get some horses and travel along the coastline. We can take a ship from Neromenian. Or Vyrantium, if all else fails."  
  
"Will you make it that far?"  
  
Careful to hide the gesture as they moved with the flow of the crowd, Lycas touched Dorian's hand. His skin was cold and clammy, and a quick glance up confirmed that his eyes were red-rimmed. Lycas had seen enough slaves collapse from total exhaustion to know the signs, and reservations aside, he could not help but worry. As Dorian had said, they were in this together.  
  
With a gaggle of heavily made-up dowagers close enough to overhear any answer Dorian might have given, Lycas instead found his fingers gently squeezed in silent reassurance.


	28. A Compliment

A well-maintained network of paved roads ran through all of Tevinter, connecting great cities, important landmarks, and tiny hamlets alike. Known as the Imperial Highway, it was easily traveled and secure, thanks to guard stations set up at intervals of 50 miles, and regular patrols.  
  
Despite such ideal conditions that extended to the weather on this warm night, lit by a full moon, it became clear to Lycas that they would not make it as far as Carastes, or anywhere near. While he had breathed easier with each step that tasted of blooming flowers and salty ocean air instead of a city the size of Qarinus - freedom, he hardly dared think - Dorian had kept going spurred by willpower alone.  
  
Knuckles showing white and hair plastered to his temples, he had begun to lean heavily on his staff within the hour. His eyes were red-veined, focused only on the route ahead. And Lycas, being a slave, could not offer him any help as others passed them by, in carriages or on horseback.  
  
Dorian looked frail and vulnerable then, a mere shade of the man he had shown himself to be at the city gates. - A Magister's son. A nobleman, born and bred, commanding everyone’s attention, accepting it as his due. But Lycas understood that it was only a mask, a public persona. A necessity of the game and survival, not unlike his own. Underneath lay something kinder, if battered. Different in a way he was not yet sure of, but evident in how Dorian had treated him since his miraculous recovery from the horror that was a blood magic ritual gone wrong.  
  
It was when the road followed the coastline more closely, white-capped waves crashing and breaking upon the cliffs down below, that Dorian finally admitted defeat and came to a stop.  
  
"Make camp."  
  
Lycas bowed, eyes already set on a place not far away, where a ring of large rocks and scorch marks suggested past fires. "As you command, dominus."  
  
XXX  
  
Lycas shifted, careful not to dislodge Dorian.  
  
Fighting to keep his eyes open, the mage had watched him in his struggle to get a fire going. How he had fumbled with the tinderbox, after having gathered kindling and logs in a nearby coppice. His mother had tried to teach him what she knew, the skills needed to survive when roaming the wilds of Thedas with a Dalish clan, but lessons whispered in the dark years ago with no practice had not been enough to save his fingers a few fresh marks.  
  
There was no denying that he was a city elf, not with a blister swelling on his thumb.  
  
Dorian, out of mana and his crystals depleted after the struggle with Marcus, had been no help either. While he claimed camping was nothing new to him, a simple spell had done the trick in the past.  
  
Unsurprising, he had fallen asleep within minutes of staring into the flickering flames, his head soon coming to rest on Lycas' shoulder. Having seen it coming, he had not flinched.  
  
Sitting on the blanket like this, a heavy and warm weight so close he felt the rise and fall of Dorian's chest, Lycas had even relaxed, against all odds. He had abhorred touch of any kind for a long time, only endured it because he had had to, sometimes while having to pretend that he enjoyed it. But this - no demands, no fondling and groping hands, degrading words whispered into his ear, no pain, drugs or brute force...  
  
It was a different, welcome kind of intimacy, if one could call it such. It reminded him of his mother, the slaves he had grown up with, their easy way of touching each other, with nothing in mind but friendship and affection.  
  
Lycas was aware that his perspective on such matters must have become skewed beyond hope. But, looking up to the stars, their cold twinkling light, he found himself wishing that Dorian would dream on, allow him to soak this moment in, steal this rare treasure.  
  
Something to live off, when it was time to wake and face reality.  
  
XXX  
  
"Forgive me for not moving," Dorian said, having jerked awake and becoming keenly aware that he was misusing Lycas as a pillow. A rather handsome one. "But I think I'll throw up all over you if I do."  
  
Now, most people in Tevinter - and, to be fair, the whole of Thedas - would have gotten rid of the danger immediately, not enthused with the prospect of having half-digested food spewed down their front. In fact, Dorian was braced for an elbow in his side because he counted himself among them.  
  
However Lycas proved unflappable, except for a soft noise that might have indicated either malicious joy or sympathy. Dorian did hope for the latter. Alas, the heat rising into his face was neither due to the campfire nor his churning stomach. It wasn't embarrassment either. At least, not really. - His robe kept any natural reaction to close body contact after weeks of abstinence well hidden, but...  
  
Dear Maker, he would kill Camio for having his pubic hair shaved!  
  
"I don't mind."  
  
You would if you knew, Dorian thought miserably. The elf shifted carefully and a long strand of hair brushed along his cheek. He had the insane urge to snatch at it, feel it against his lips and inhale its scent.  
  
Well, at least now he had irrefutable proof that the ritual had failed.  
  
"Are you quite sure?" Dorian managed, force-fed good manners so often that falling back on them when in doubt had become a sort of knee-jerk reaction. "I wouldn't want to impose."  
  
"You're not." Muscles tensed, allowing Dorian to actually feel Lycas' hesitation. "May I ask you something?"  
  
"You realize you just did, yes?" Dorian teased, grateful for the distraction. "All kidding aside, you don't need my permission. Not now or ever. Ask away. Though I may choose not to answer."  
  
"What is wrong with relying on mana-imbued crystals?"  
  
"Nothing at all."  
  
It had been an instant response, the same he would have given when asked by a teacher during a Circle lesson. It touched upon a heavily debated topic, in fact. Dorian stared into the flames, honestly caught off guard. This was not the South, but if one social class in Tevinter was wary of mages, it was that of the servus publicus.  
  
"Does that interest you?" Dorian lifted his staff a mere inch, so that the eyes of the wooden drakes caught the flames. "Magic?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"It does not frighten you?"  
  
Dorian felt Lycas move again, that ice-blue stare searching what the elf could see of his face. "Only when it is abused."  
  
Dorian nodded, for once not up to a philosophical debate about what 'abuse' entailed, exactly. He knew what Lycas meant and agreed wholeheartedly. But his own father would hardly consider what he had done wrong, nor would many other mages in Tevinter. It was the age-old song of power and corruption. And contrary to popular belief, there was simply no such thing as 'black magic' - it all came down to the caster's intentions. Or strength of character, as far as demonic possession was concerned. Magic itself was but a tool.  
  
"Well, to answer your question, the method itself is sound. You can store energy or spells in special crystals. My difficulty while dealing with Marcus lay in the fact that I had done the former, instead of the latter."  
  
"Your... fine control?"  
  
"Exactly. With the flow of my mana disrupted, I had trouble forcing the released energy into the construct of a spell."  
  
Now out of danger, Dorian found himself relaxing while Lycas mulled that over. A few guards were passing by on the street, but as he had instructed, the elf had set up the usual markers, meaning that their camp was ignored, except for cursory glances. All was going according to plan. The more official documentation and eyewitnesses existed, the better.  
  
"Does that mean a soporati could use crystals with spells inside?"  
  
"You like to think outside the box, don't you?" Dorian said, genuinely impressed. Most without the gift would never have thought to ask such a question. "And in theory, the answer is yes. But those crystals, even these tiny ones here, are very expensive. A mage can simply release the stored spell, while anyone else would need to break it. Tossing a small fortune like a grenade would be quite the waste of resources."  
  
"Oh. I see."  
  
That sounded rather disappointed; dare he say close to pouting? Dorian then noticed that Lycas was prodding a burn blister, skin shining and angry red. Vague memories of the elf struggling with wood shavings and a tinderbox came to mind.  
  
He chuckled softly. Now that was the kind of practical and pragmatic application of magic some of his Circle teachers would have loved to tiny, razor sharp pieces! Ah, their outrage. - Mages, again reduced to lighting candles for the Chantry!  
  
"No need for more campfires. Come tomorrow, we'll sleep at an inn, like civilized people."  
  
"I would like that."  
  
Silence fell between them, broken only by the wash of ocean waves and the hoot of an owl. Not uncomfortable at all, this. Two grown men, sitting scandalously close together, and yet the air was not charged with judging stares and whispers. If only this could last.  
  
In the end, Dorian did not move away. He had wanted to, for Lycas' sake, but exhaustion won out, and sleep swallowed him whole.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear Readers, I will put this FF on hold until after I've written my fill (Loki/Fandral) for the Marvel BB challenge (mid-August at the most, I hope). Please bear with me! But I've got good news as well: the plot of TFICW will be expanded :)

**Author's Note:**

> My attempt to fill this prompt from the DA kinkmeme:
> 
> Dorian/OMC - the ritual went horribly wrong
> 
> Halward went through with the blood ritual, but instead of changing Dorian's sexuality, it left him (temporarily, though his father can't know that) in a vegetative state (his magic gone, can't move much or speak etc). So Halward decides to fake Dorian's death, to save face and keep his high status as a magister - and simply extract the sperm needed to ensure the continued existence of the great house Pavus.
> 
> Cue an elven slave being the only one who cares for Dorian (feeds him, washes him, speaks with, soothes nightmares, whatever) - and then Dorian getting gradually better.  
> They escape and eventually land themselves in Haven after the Conclave exploded?
> 
> Would prefer lots of angst, H/C - but no non-con/rape, other than what needs to be done to get poor Dorian's sperm...
> 
>  
> 
> (http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/13696.html?thread=52955008)


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